


Endless Sun

by OriksPix



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2018-12-30 05:32:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12101820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriksPix/pseuds/OriksPix
Summary: Philippe returns to Versailles and finds himself trapped once more. If only he had no need of the Sun, who burned him and filled him all the same.Sequel to Face Au Soleil, set in season 2.





	1. The More Things Change

**Author's Note:**

> This story starts during ep. 2x05 so spoilers if you haven't seen it. Uses bits of dialogue from the episode.

“You’re not going.”

These were words he had dreaded hearing, words that haunted him at the very back of his mind when his insecurities came burrowing to the surface. Louis had spoken them just when he had finally let himself build up his excitement and thirst for war. As if to plunge the knife deeper into his gut, the announcement came during a sparring session. 

Philippe gripped his rapier handle tighter, the pounding blood in his ears drowning out the stream of bullshit Louis was spewing now.

“… I am called by a higher purpose to command my armies myself. It is I who must go. You must remain here.”

Philippe threw his weapon on the ground in frustration. “Is that it? No apology? No nothing!?”

In three quick strides he was on his brother, grabbing at his arms, making sure to dig his fingers painfully into the silken threads that would be no real barrier to his angry nails. 

“What is this higher purpose?” he spat out the phrase with venom. Everything Louis did had a supposed higher purpose. He could have swiped Philippe’s last bite of pie from his plate at the dinner table, and then waved it away as serving the higher purpose of filling up the king to satisfaction.

No, this was Louis punishing him for remaining at Saint-Cloud for so long. For daring to defy him in his righteous grief over Henriette’s passing. Versailles was a snake pit cloaked in gilded walls and he had sworn to stay away. But of course he couldn’t. In his incurable foolishness, Philippe had been lured back by duty and that relentless invisible string that forever bound them together.

“I know better than anyone how stifling this palace can be. Take me with you,” he begged, a last-ditch effort to regain a scrap of honour. “Let us stand side-by-side on the battlefield.”

Louis’s face hardened. “You wish to be by my side now? Where were you when I asked you to come back to Versailles? Why did you stay away when I needed you most?”

“What you needed was for me to remarry so you could add another ally to your cause,” Philippe hissed, “Whatever you need from me is always about what would suit you best, regardless of my feelings.”

“That’s not true. I thought we had reached an understanding, brother. I thought we had finally learned each other’s hearts.”

Louis didn’t dare say more for they were in the company of guards and servants, but Philippe caught his hidden meaning. Even now, his brother’s eyes hooded the way they had the day he had cornered him in the rain, and kissed him for the first time. 

The memories had been inescapable but easier to bury underneath parties and trysts within his own home; being so close again brought them back to the surface, clawing out of his head with frightening strength. Louis’s heat, his scent, his entire body unfurling beneath Philippe’s fingers, opening up to him in blissful secret… all were torments that haunted him still. Anger was indistinguishable from desire; perhaps they could never be separated where Louis was concerned.

And now here they stood, Philippe once more being asked to remain behind and round up the festering pit of vipers while the king rode off to amass glory. They had indulged in the most forbidden want in their hearts yet in the end, nothing had changed.

“You never learn,” Philippe whispered. 

Louis glared at him. “Then it is time I have my lessons on the battlefield.”

He turned and strode away, his retinue of guards and servants trailing behind in an orderly line. Philippe was left alone with his sparring partner who bowed awkwardly at the retreating king’s back. His thirst for fighting had melted to nothing, and now all he felt was bone-deep exhaustion far beyond his young years. He did not pick up his rapier when he left the grounds.

-

Liselotte was a bright, loud, unusual figure in a world of sharp, cold shadows and controlled whispers. She didn’t know nor care to navigate the dangerous waters of courtly society and gossip. Her goals were dutiful and brashly honest and Philippe felt strangely refreshed by her presence. But right now, her annoying insistence to be by his side was hampering his desire to brood by himself.

“You cannot sit here and pout like a child,” she scolded him, hands on her hips.

“That is exactly what I will do. It is what I always do and he knows it.” Philippe sighed and hung his head. He hadn’t moved from his spot on the bed for a good hour now and didn’t plan on getting up anytime soon. “You wouldn’t understand. How could anyone understand what it is to have such a brother?”

Liselotte knelt down and firmly took hold of his hands, startling him. She was frowning, a strange thing to see upon so fresh a face.

“Instead of sulking because your brother is king, you should be a king in your own right,” she said, “He has an empire. Why can’t _you_ build an empire? He has a dynasty. Why can’t you build a dynasty?”

She slipped her hands up his arms, moving underneath his loose sleeves. Her frown had melted, giving way to little trembles at the corners of her mouth. Philippe finally saw just how anxious she had been all this time. The pressures of securing an heir and the whispers that trailed her as she passed through crowded halls were wearing her down.

“You are my king,” she spoke with an earnestness that shook him.

What she needed from him was straightforward. Her position at court was precariously placed upon his shoulders, and he had yet to do his duty. It was what she needed and what she wanted, and she was going to force him to quash his childishness if that was what it took.

While the Chevalier spent Philippe’s money on the most frivolous and outlandish garments he could find and his brother kept him tied up in his mind games, Liselotte was the one honest person he could see. He didn’t have to think of ulterior motives or guess at hidden meanings, for she had none. In that moment, it was sweet relief. And the thought of his own legacy, separate from his brother’s and all the tangles that came with it, well… that was the sweetest feeling of all. 

Philippe grabbed his wife around the waist without a word of warning. She gasped, but quickly clung to him as he pulled her down on the bed.

-

The court held a large feast to celebrate their king’s impending departure and wish him the most glorious of victories. Philippe and Liselotte sat beside Louis and his queen, raising their glasses when appropriate but keeping their words to a minimum. Louis smiled all throughout dinner; it burned a hole in Philippe’s gut and his appetite fell into it. Perhaps this was for the best, he thought. Once his brother felt the blood and mud upon his face, once he saw the limbs of his men fly before his eyes, maybe then he would understand the stark realities of all those that died for his glory. Away from this artificial Eden he had created, maybe then he would understand Philippe.

He scanned the crowded dining hall until he spotted the Chevalier morosely plucking away at his oysters. Their eyes met briefly before he looked down again. 

“I will sleep in my own chambers tonight,” Liselotte leaned in to whisper in his ear, “If you wish to be alone with him.”

He had to wait another three agonizingly long courses before the dinner party was dismissed to the games room to continue the revelry. Philippe deftly wove through the wandering nobles and managed to snatch the Chevalier’s arm before he slipped away.

His lover gave him a churlish look. “What?”

“I wanted to speak with you. We’ve had little time alone.”

“And why do you think that is? Every time I’ve come to you, you’ve pushed me away. Busy with your duties and your woes and your _wife_.” 

He spoke the last word with contempt and Philippe couldn’t suppress his flare of irritation.

“You are being ridiculous. I do my duty by my wife as she does by me, nothing more. It would be madness not to do so. Now will you come with me to our chambers?”

He reached for the Chevalier, who deftly evaded him with a dramatic twirl. When he faced Philippe again, he had pulled out a coin purse from his sleeve.

“No,” he said, “I’m rather in the mood to try out my luck at the card tables. Just me…” He jiggled the purse, delighting in the clinks his coins made. “… And my five thousand friends.”

Philippe’s jaw tightened. “ _My_ friends, you mean.”

The Chevalier laughed, but there was no joy in it. “If you wish to keep me company, my darling, I would gladly welcome you.”

But Philippe had no taste for games at the moment. He watched his lover disappear into the crowd of nobles, frozen against the tide of silks and skirts that brushed past him. He turned on his heel and left, the beginnings of a headache knocking above his left brow as he wandered down the hall with sluggish steps. He would sleep alone tonight, it seemed. Alone to stew in his dark thoughts until they slipped into his subconscious and turned into troubling dreams he would remember the next morning.

He dismissed his valets the moment he was in his bedroom, barely waiting until they had closed the doors before he fell face-first upon his pillow, not even bothering to remove his shoes. Perhaps this was how he should remain for the night; let the servants find him smothering himself in his own sheets. Let them tell the king how Monsieur was doing his best to meld with the furniture. It would give him a greater purpose than what he had now.

There was a soft knock at the door. Philippe’s command to enter was muffled by the cushions, but he nevertheless heard the handle turn with a creak. He pushed himself up, vainly hoping that the Chevalier had changed his mind. But he was not the one who walked into the room, and Philippe’s heart plummeted with bitter disappointment.

“Shouldn’t you be enjoying your going-away party?” he said to Louis. Without waiting for a reply he lay back down, this time turning his head to the side so he was staring at the wall.

He heard the soft click of his brother’s heels and felt the dip of his mattress as another weight sank beside him.

“I declared a need for early retirement, but told them all to continue celebrating.”

“And so you come here?” Philippe mumbled, “Have you not taken enough from me? Must I also be deprived of peaceful solitude?”

Fingers trailed up his neck, feather-light and barely brushing. But to Philippe, they felt like bolts of fire shooting through every nerve end in his body. He quickly pushed himself off the bed, shaking off the tingles from his skin and strode to the window, not once looking at his brother. The aching knock above his brow had increased to a dull pound and he pressed his forehead against the cool glass for relief.

Louis couldn’t let him have any respite, of course. He soon had his arms around Philippe’s waist and hovered his lips over his neck, the heady scent of his excessive perfume dizzying all senses.

His touch was infuriating in its gentleness. Philippe wanted to wrench his arms away and twist them until they broke. But he also wanted them to crush him into an embrace so stifling that all breath would leave him and he could think no more.

“I’ve missed you,” Louis murmured into his skin.

He shivered. “Don’t.”

“I have to do this myself, surely you understand,” Louis continued, “I need to regain some measure of control.” He tightened his hold and let out a shaky sigh. “I feel like everything is slipping out of my grasp. My courtiers poison each other and I cannot find the cause. My child with the Marquise de Montespan has left this world before she could even lift her own head. And now half of Europe rises against us. I’m lost as to what to do.”

There it was: the tiny tremor in his voice that betrayed the fear Louis hid so flawlessly every day. Few people would have caught it, but Philippe did. He knew that his brother wanted him to hear that fleeting second of vulnerability; it could only have happened because Louis allowed it. 

“If I can be the one to lead us to victory against the Dutch, I believe it will help set things right for France.”

“One battle isn’t enough to set things right and you know it very well,” Philippe snapped, “You’ve lost control of the very place you’ve built and it frightens you, so you’re running away to leave me and your wife to deal with the mess.”

Louis dug his nails hard into Philippe’s abdomen and he knew he had hit his mark. It filled him with a cruel, savage glee.

“That is enough!” he turned Philippe around and leaned forward until their faces touched. “I came to you for comfort, not for reproaches. Take my worries from me tonight, brother.”

Philippe couldn’t stop the tremor that ran down his back. His shameful temptation was but a hair’s breath away, and any second his weakness would get the better of him. Louis was breathing heavily, and Philippe’s eyes were drawn to his parted lips, thin and soft and so, so close. He wanted like fire, but the bitterness in his heart fought against it in a manic tug of war. It was only a matter of which dark entity within him would win tonight.

“You come to take more from me,” he whispered raggedly, “But I have nothing left to give. I have married again because you wished it so, and I will hold down the fort while you’re away because you don’t want to deal with the muddle your court has become. But you won’t have what you want tonight.”

“You are denying your own want as well,” Louis insisted. He moved to kiss him, but Philippe jerked his head to the side.

“I don’t want this.”

Louis palmed his cheek and forced him back to eye contact, back into his electric blue gaze. “Yes you do,” he said.

Philippe shut his eyes before he cracked under that infuriating stare. If Louis needed to win his war, then he needed to win tonight’s battle. "Have you ever thought that all this misfortune is happening because of what we have done? That this is our punishment?"

"No," Louis replied almost immediately, "I would have felt it in my heart had it been so."

That could have been his answer for anything; the king was never wrong. Philippe had argued against this ridiculous notion longer than he could remember, but Louis had always stood his ground, smiling his calm, confident smile and forging ahead with no scruples. He had always been this way in play, in politics and in love. It was a path Philppe wasn't sure he could follow.

“Go to your bed, brother,” he said dully, “You will need all the rest you can get, for you will find none after the first shot fires. That wisdom is my only gift to you tonight.”

Louis kept his hold on him for what seemed like an eternity. With every passing second, Philippe felt his defiance slip until he feared he could no longer bear it and would admit defeat just to end his torment. 

But finally, mercifully, Louis’s hands slid off his body. He walked out of the room without saying a word and closed the door with the same gentleness he had used upon entering. 

Once he was alone, Philippe pressed his hand against the window to steady himself as his legs nearly collapsed. He could hardly believe he had won their battle of wills, and what’s more… that Louis had yielded. Perhaps he was now one item among many on his list of dilemmas, and Louis no longer had the energy to fight against the rising tide. But it was not a complete victory for Philippe. He grabbed his hardness between his legs and let out a strangled cry of shameful need. There would be no rest for either of them.

The next morning the king rode off to war, accompanied by his generals flanking his horse on either side. Protocol demanded that Philippe be there to bid him farewell, and so he stood amongst the many nobles that packed the courtyard.

They exchanged no words, but just before he turned away, Louis stared at him so intensely that Philippe flinched. It was like looking into the sun for too long and feeling the sear of its heat like a brand. He was left with an invisible scar throbbing within him, one that would not abate until his brother’s return, and perhaps not even then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I finished watching season 2 and I couldn't help myself, lol


	2. Duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is late, but it's done! Been busy with RL stuff.

It was a strange thing to wear the mask of a king. He had only ever been in the periphery, draped in skirts and kept in the shadows to prevent him from ever stealing the Sun’s light. Now, Philippe gingerly stepped into his brother’s shoes at the queen’s behest, masquerading in front of the Indian envoy, setting up trades he had no right to. He had tasted but a few drops of the power that was only a hair’s breadth away, snatched from him by his later birth.

Playing the role was all Philippe could ever do, and it was as far as he would ever want to do. Constrained as he was within his position, he didn’t actually want to be king. What he wanted was freedom to live his life as he saw fit, and though the king could make his will law, his burdens and responsibilities were more than Philippe ever wanted to shoulder.

Far better to simply dress up and pretend, as if he were enacting a play for his own amusement. The envoy couldn’t know what the real king of France looked like. What perfume trails he left lingering in the room. How his lightning blue eyes could still even the most skittish of creatures.

He couldn’t know, but Philippe knew all too well. He dreamed of the battlefield for many nights, the line between memory and nightmare blurring until all that was left was blood and dirt and the stench of horses and decay. He dreamed of Louis, caught amidst the pictures he had tried to forget, the lone Sun flickering faintly, slowly submerging beneath wet carnage. More than once he had woken up in a sweat, the Chevalier’s arm around his waist the only thing keeping him from falling off the bed.

What if Louis returned with the same tremble in his hands, the same pounding in his heart at the sound of fireworks? He would turn to Philippe for comfort and commiseration, and they would have another secret between them. Another tangled thread that bound them together. No escape from the intimacy planted into their very blood. And so Philippe plunged himself in the indulgent parties thrown by his lover, lost his senses into the curly hair of pretty boys and laughed past his sister-in-law’s disapproval. It was liberating to fall into hedonism without the watchful Sun’s rays burning upon their backs.

When Louis returned, so did his fear. But it wasn’t until he was summoned for a private reunion that Philippe realized his brother had changed, though not in the way he had expected. The king had left with a furrowed brow and shoulders drawn tight. War had brought out his former confidence; he stood tall again, and looked at Philippe unblinkingly.

“You’re smiling,” he spoke with caution, “I take it you found glory on the battlefield?”

Louis shook his head. “I found something far more valuable.”

He approached, hands clasped behind him, still maintaining that infuriating smile. Philippe found himself reneging on all of his previous anxieties. 

“I cannot explain it. All I knew was that Versailles was slowly rotting from the inside, and I fled. I confess I was frightened; I felt powerless before an enemy I couldn’t pinpoint. I thought to leave and face down an enemy whose name I knew. But now…” He paused. “I understand what I must do. I will cut out the blackened core at the very heart of this place that it may once again flourish.”

Philippe was in no mood for vague declarations. He clasped his own hands behind his back in imitation of his brother’s stance and said: “And what does that entail? Do you have a brilliant plan to stop the endless poison affairs plaguing your halls?”

“I will return Fabien Marchal to my service,” Louis replied, “He was leading the investigation. I’m sure he has gathered information he had yet to share before his departure.”

Philippe failed to see the brilliance in that plan. If Marchal had any sense he would have left for Paris and disappeared in its miring crowds far away from this madness. There was clearly more to it than rehiring his old head of security, but he sensed his brother wasn’t about to divulge any more.

Louis ran a finger up his vest, sliding between the ruffles of his cravat to skim across his neck. Philippe’s hands fell to his sides as he suppressed a shiver. They were alone together for the first time since the army’s return. Alone where none but God could see their inexorable pull.

“Are you still angry with me, brother?” Louis asked. His eyes flicked to Philippe’s mouth. “I hope not. You had the opportunity to be king while I was away. Did you enjoy it?

“Tremendously,” he bit out.

“Did you not miss me?”

Oh, how he wished a simple feather-light touch did not undo him so, like a knot unraveling between deft, insistent fingers. Louis stared into his eyes and he remembered those brief moments of vulnerability, cracking past the king’s porcelain façade, breaking only just for him.

I need you, brother, he had spoken that day they had first kissed in the rain. 

Philippe needed as well. God forgive him, he needed. But he remained silent and unyielding. Pride was too strong a force to break. 

Louis smiled knowingly, and Philippe closed his eyes before his heart could ache further from the sight. Then, ever so gently, he felt a pair of lips press against his. Louis kissed him softly, allowed his mouth to linger with nary a breath between them. 

It was enough to break the fragile dam Philippe had built around him and he moaned lightly into it, reaching out to pull him closer but then Louis pulled away and out of his reach.

“How is your wife?” he asked, strolling to the other side of the room.

“What?” was all Philippe managed. He was left standing with arms outstretched, looking like a fool.

Louis lifted the left corner of his mouth and all of a sudden, Philippe understood. This was his brother’s revenge for not indulging him before he had left for war. Newfound confidence and poise be damned, he could still be that spiteful little boy who would twist Philippe’s ear if he refused to play. Now he was the one to be left with his desire unquenched.

“Tell her I would like her to come greet me,” Louis said, “She is part of the family now, after all.”

That teasing _bastard_.

-

Liselotte’s pregnancy was a surprise to them all. Philippe had feared the worst when she had retched up her breakfast for the third morning in a row. More bodies had been found dead in their rooms, poisoned by the secret vials passed around court without so much as a word. His mind conjured forth Henriette’s last agonizing days, of the bloodstains dotting their sheets, of her screams that had pierced him deeper than any cries he had heard on the battlefield. If this were to repeat itself, he would leave this accursed place once more and barricade the world away, royal duties be damned.

But the doctor’s smile had taken them all by surprise, and Philippe could do naught but keep his knees steady as Louis clapped him on the shoulder and extended his congratulations. It was only once he and his wife were alone that he finally found the sense to pull her into a comforting embrace. 

“Are you happy?” she asked, gingerly sliding her arms around him.

He smiled. “Of course. We’ve achieved what we set out to do. Our dynasty’s seed has been planted.”

“It seems my conjured images of naked soldiers worked.” She laughed and pulled away. “I suppose we can sleep in our separate chambers now.”

Philippe hesitated. “You can stay, if you’d like. I should keep an eye on your health.”

Liselotte waved him away sternly. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve got so many chambermaids now that I can’t remember all of their names! Anyway, can you honestly tell me you know how to care for a pregnant woman without calling for someone?”

Philippe opened his mouth but had no retort. He pinched his lips, casting his eyes anywhere but upon his wife’s amused face.

“Were you in charge of monitoring your first wife’s health during her pregnancies?”

Silence.

“I didn’t think so. Now you can have your golden-haired moody statue in here again and I have an excuse to leave parties early after all the good food has been eaten.” 

The Chevalier was in fact moodier than ever. News of Liselotte’s pregnancy had darkened his spirits and Philippe didn’t have the patience to chase after him again. His fits would pass, as they always did. His preoccupations lay elsewhere.

It wasn’t difficult to see the change in Louis ever since his return. Whatever he had found on the battlefield had instilled him with a newfound sense of purpose; he often strode through the gardens, coming up with new elaborate additions to be planted. One wondered whether he would be building until his death.

There was a new companion beside him on these excursions, one Philippe vaguely remembered seeing amid the Marquise de Montespan’s entourage. A quiet woman, who shied away from the excesses of the court. She had somehow caught the king’s ear, and he had shed off his former indulgences in favour of her company. 

Perhaps that was why Madame de Montespan had come to Philippe in desperation. They had both been left behind in this new Versailles. Louis had not approached him since Liselotte’s pregnancy had been confirmed, apparently content to leave him with a chaste kiss. The mere memory of it made him want to tear his sheets asunder on sleepless nights.

This was what he had wished for when Louis had left for war. A return to their previous state, before they had plunged themselves into desires secret and dark. And yet, he didn’t want it at all. Louis had no need of him; the feeling of uselessness he had dreaded for so long was slowly creeping back into his core.

Madame de Montespan, teary-eyed and pale, must have felt the same as she sat on her bed. Philippe had never seen her so subdued before, so vulnerable. He thought of Henriette, of how they had both hurt for Louis. Versailles may be changing around them, but their bonds to the king never would.

“I don’t know how I can help,” he confessed with a small shrug, “He doesn’t listen to me, at least not anymore. Not since his return. Whatever has brought about this change, I don’t know that I can reverse it.”

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffled. “But you understand what he has put me through. He has hurt us both. I’ve been abandoned for what he believes to be the good of his rule and you are locked in a marriage against your will for his own gains.” She looked up at him, knitting her brows. “Why would he no longer be speaking to you? What have you done?”

Philippe swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Perhaps he can no longer tolerate my wicked ways. He seems to prefer solemn contemplation at the moment.”

If the king was indeed walking down a more pious road, then Monsieur was to remain off the path, hidden in the dark grass with the wolves and the snakes and every other odd creature. He pondered taking his wife and the Chevalier and returning to Saint-Cloud, this time for good. Let the glorious sun king stretch his far-reaching rays somewhere they couldn’t touch him.

The Marquise pulled out a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her cheeks, though more tears slid upon them. “His love for you can’t be replaced, for he has no other brother, whereas I…” She took a deep breath, shaky and violent. “A woman’s place in a man’s heart is just as fragile as her standing in society. And I am slowly losing both.”

Philippe didn’t know what words could offer any real comfort. He wanted to say that he understood her pain, that he knew what it felt like to be seared by the sun’s heat and then left trembling in the cold to tend to the wounds alone. But there was only so much he was willing to risk sharing. Instead, he waited patiently as she composed herself, tucking her handkerchief away and drying her eyes with a final swipe of her finger.

“I will talk to him for you,” he promised. If he could make life easier for at least one of them, it would be enough. She smiled tremulously and whispered her thanks.

-

Two weeks they had circled around each other, barely speaking unless they had to undergo formalities in a crowd. Philippe had been mainly concerned with his wife’s health and had been happy to leave Louis to whatever plans he had. He in turn had been left alone to keep the peace, and now whenever he wasn’t pestering Liselotte with questions about what she needed, he was trying to coax the Chevalier out of his dark moods. His current attempts to persuade a return to their bed were slowly making headway, but were now stalled by his newfound goal of catching Louis alone. He had made a promise to the Marquise and though he was to fulfill it fashionably late (as was custom, after all), he did plan on fulfilling it.

Louis made the first move however, and one day sent a summons via Bontemps while Philippe had been whispering filthy pleas into a rapt Chevalier’s ear.

“Tell the king to take a tour around his vast garden,” his lover replied, twirling a dark strand of hair around his fingers, “We should be done by then.”

Bontemps, ever steadfast in his duty, didn’t relent. “His Majesty insists that it is an urgent matter of state.”

The Chevalier groaned and threw his head onto Philippe’s shoulder. “Just when we were about to reconcile,” he mourned, “Surely it can wait?”

Philippe silently prayed that he couldn’t feel his quickening heartbeat beneath their many silken layers. He had needed to talk to his brother but hadn’t expected such an abrupt summons. His mind raced with scenarios: would Louis divulge his new plans? Would they be alone? Another possible battle looming?

“I don’t think it would be wise to delay,” he said, gently pushing the Chevalier off. His lover’s dark eyes turned almost pitch black under his furrowing brow, and Philippe knew he had lost what little goodwill he had managed to scrounge up in the past few days.

“I’ll come back soon,” he promised.

Ignoring the resigned scoff he got as a reply, he left their chambers. The long walk to the king’s quarters was peppered with the usual crowd, moving about in their large skirts and frills, clouding the air with myriad perfumes, each stronger than the last. But there was also a frisson permeating the halls. Philippe glimpsed the fright upon the courtiers’ faces, how they whispered urgently to each other. The threat of poison and treachery loomed like a shadow, and dread was contagious. He could feel its cold tendrils taking root in his veins; but perhaps that had as more to do with his impending meeting.

The king stood alone in his study, usually swarming with advisors at this time of the day. Philippe suspected they had all been dismissed prior to his arrival, but found that he was ultimately glad for the privacy. There were things to discuss meant only for their ears.

“You have fortuitous timing. I needed to speak with you about something,” he said.

Louis, who hadn’t looked away from the maps on his table when he had first arrived, now glanced up. “About what?”

“The Marquise de Montespan.”

Louis stopped his hand mid-air, about to reach for his quill. His jaw tightened. “She asked you to speak to me, didn’t she?”

“You’ve treated her very coldly. I’ve known you to be callous with your mistresses once your interest has run its course, but if this is how you dismiss your favourite, you’ve certainly sunken to new lows.”

“I did what I had to do for the good of Versailles,” Louis countered sternly, “I saw things so clearly when I was at war, brother. I was blinded, distracted from my own goals. I cannot let myself stray lest the very foundations of our nation topple all around me. I was being guided by her where a king must lead on his own.”

“Yet you let yourself be guided by another. That woman who now accompanies you on your garden strolls, what’s her name? Madame de Maintenon?”

Louis left his desk to circle around Philippe, tugging at the frills of his cuffs. The tension suffocating the palace was getting to him as well, though he hid it almost impeccably from everyone. But now they were alone, and he let his mask slip just an inch.

“She is very pious, I hear,” Philippe continued, “Is that your new goal, then? To thrill in chasing after women resistant to your desires?”

“Stop,” Louis replied. He ceased his pacing to face Philippe, catching his eyes. “Madame de Maintenon has helped me understand why everything was falling apart. I was distracted by excess and pleasure, and my enemies took advantage of that.”

Philippe bit back a derisive laugh. His brother spoke with such finality as he was wont to, but the words were not ones he would have expected to hear. 

“This entire place is nothing but an exercise in excess and pleasure,” he said loudly, throwing his hands up, “You can claim that you’re building it as a symbol of authority and as a means of keeping us all rounded up like cattle under your watchful eye, but it is above all your vanity brought to life in stone and gold. But alright. Let’s say you are walking on a more austere road. Is that why you’ve left me in the dark as well? Is my life of frivolity and pleasure a blight upon your noble plans?”

When Louis turned away, his lips curled upwards into a sneer. “Or perhaps it’s because you’ve committed your greatest sin with me. How exactly will you do penance for this? I doubt you’d want to utter it at confession.”

“Enough,” Louis said, whirling back to face him once more. He made to pull Philippe’s face close, but his palms never made contact. He kept them hovering in the air, hesitant to touch. And Philippe, heart flipping at the electricity he saw in his brother’s eyes, understood.

“I still tempt you,” he said, “You’ve cut out your mistress with barely a blink but you’ve merely kept me at arm’s length lest you succumb again.”

“It isn’t that simple,” Louis replied. He dropped his hands to his sides. “You are my kin and a member of the royal house, I cannot keep you too far away. Besides, you made it quite clear before my departure that you didn’t want this anymore.”

“I struggle with my conscience and my desire. What I want is never constant. But now,” Philippe made a show of loosening the ends of his bowtie, pulling the collar down to expose his pale neck. “Now I may just try and barrel through your resistance.”

Louis stared at him. “Why?”

“Because it vexes you.”

A loud, beleaguered sigh: music to Philippe’s ears. He prepared himself for another jab, eager to savour this moment where he was on top for once, but Louis cut him off with an impatient wave of his arm.

“This has nothing to do with your childish contests of dominance. We cannot allow ourselves any indulgences while our enemies watch from the shadows.” He lowered his head, somber as stone. “There is a spy in our midst.”

Philippe stilled, all traces of glee vanished. “How do you know this?”

“Cassel confessed to me that he was part of a plot against me, and gave me the name of one who has been blackmailing him for information. You know of Thomas, my historian?”

Philippe knew him well enough by sight. He shadowed the king when the sun was up and even past dusk if there was occasion to talk. A tall, pale man with sharp eyes and a flowing tongue, judging by his conversations overheard at the dinner table.

“This is why I summoned you here,” Louis said, “I want you to get to know him better. Earn his trust. Find out what you can.”

Philippe swallowed down the bitter bile that had steadily risen in his throat. “So my duty is to be a whore for France.”

“It is to _save_ France,” Louis insisted, “I ask this of you because you’re the one I trust most, as I’ve told you many times.”

He turned to the window as if to soak up the sun’s rays for energy. His eyes lost focus, gazing past the expensive glass panes into some distant place no one else could see. “Do you remember Marie Mancini?” he asked.

“I remember how mad you were for her,” Philippe replied. He hadn’t paid much attention to Cardinal Mazarin’s nieces (his eye had strayed more towards his nephew), but he still remembered vivacious Marie, with her dark curls and sparkling eyes. She had shared her love of music and literature with his brother, and perhaps had unknowingly planted the seed of Versailles within him.

“I wanted to marry her,” Louis recalled wistfully, “I was twenty years old and still clinging to childish dreams. But Mother reminded me of my duty, and she was right. Whatever marriage I would make had to be done for the benefit of France and not for my own personal happiness.”

He had openly wept when Marie’s carriage had ridden away, had clung to Philippe’s arms in his grief. He would have collapsed to his knees had Philippe not kept him up, soaking his tears in his vest and murmuring what comfort he could. It was the last time Louis had ever been so openly vulnerable in public.

“That was my first true test as king. I learned to put aside my own desires for the good of the kingdom. My time at war has reminded me of this lesson. I do not wish to put you in such a precarious position but you’re the one I trust most for the job and it must be done.” 

He slowly approached Philippe as he spoke, dispelling the air between them until they were breath to breath. A proximity they both craved, hidden from the heavy gaze of the court and all its burdens. Philippe felt the world tilt, his senses collapsing under the assault that was his brother’s incredibly strong perfume. All of a sudden, a pair of strong hands gripped his arms and he was grounded once more, caught by painfully blue eyes and unable to blink.

“I’ve kept my distance from you so I could re-align my focus on my duties. So I could see what needed to be done. But I would not have kept you at arm’s length forever,” Louis murmured, “You are my blood. I need you to bring glory to this palace alongside me.”

And though he would rather listen to a thousand of the blandest sermons than admit it aloud, Philippe felt his breeches tighten at the word ‘need’, falling from his brother’s lips in a whisper, but barreling through him like a waterfall.

“I thought a king had to eliminate all of his weaknesses,” he said, lowering his gaze to find mercy from temptation.

Louis smiled. “Even a king is but a man. God understands that I have to allow myself at least one weakness.”

“What we have is more than weakness.”

“I can’t be expected to restrain myself all the time. Not from you, dear brother.”

Louis glanced at his lips and Philippe, reeling from the mingling sounds of their breaths, leaned closer to plunge into their secret desires they had long denied themselves. But Louis jerked away, cheeks flush and lips parted, nevertheless determined.

Philippe groaned, grabbing fistfuls of thin air. “Stop doing this to me,” he begged. _Begged_. He had been reduced to this.

Louis clasped his hands behind his back, much quicker at slipping back into a mask of perfect poise. “Weed out Thomas’s motives,” he said, “Only once the snakes have been removed from the grass will we be able to bask under the sun in peace. I’m not doing this to torture either of us, but to keep us focused on France first and foremost.”

Philippe returned to his chambers, burning with an unquenchable fever. He needed to either fuck or fight someone, but once he’d arrived, the Chevalier was no longer there to sate him one way or the other. There was nothing left to do but to collapse onto the bed and unlace his breeches to do the job himself. He angrily hoped that Louis, underneath his controlled manners and ill-timed restraint, was truly suffering as much as he was.


	3. Entangled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I was gonna finish this before season 3 aired but then LOLNOPE RL got in the way. But it's finished now!

It had been a two-hour vigil outside of his chambers, and Philippe could feel the ache of it in his knees. He was leaning against the double doors, straining his ear for any noises coming from within. Liselotte’s sobs had ebbed a while ago, but he was loathe to knock until she stirred again. She had asked for privacy and he had complied, but he was reluctant to wander away.

He shut his eyes and let his head fall back against the bumpy gilded flowers carved behind the doorknob to stop himself from falling asleep. News of the French army’s decimation of the Palatinate had spread throughout the palace like wildfire. Liselotte had refused to see anyone under these circumstances and had shut herself away to grieve. The king was also nowhere to be found but Philippe expected nothing less. Ruthlessness to the point of madness, controlled as it was, was still a headlong trajectory into an ocean of blood. And now his wife was trapped among those who had murdered her family.

Footsteps approached; Philippe looked up and his heart froze. Louis was coming, followed by Madame de Maintenon. He leaped to his feet, the ice in his chest melting to give way to burning, unrestrained ire.

“If you’ve come here to tell my wife that the death of her people was an inescapable casualty of war, I will not hesitate to throw you out myself,” he said harshly.

“Please Monsieur,” Madame de Maintenon spoke softly, “His Majesty has come to ask for forgiveness.”

Philippe inhaled sharply, but floundered on words. The king never asked anyone for forgiveness save from God. He would never allow himself to be so deferential. He looked to Louis, peering into his eyes for any foreign twitch. But his face remained impassive.

 This only served to incense him further, and he turned his cold gaze back onto Madame de Maintenon. “What makes you think this can be forgiven?”

 She swallowed nervously but was saved the pain of replying by Louis. “Surely that is for your wife to decide,” he said.

 “You won’t come anywhere near her,” Philippe hissed, stepping forward.

 Louis’s carefully neutral mask slid just an inch; his eyes and mouth dropped downward like they were being sunken by invisible weights. “My lady has helped me to see the true course of action I should take. To be the true king I believe myself to be.”

 Philippe scoffed. “This is about your kingship, of course it is. Why else would you be here if not to show how magnanimous you are?”

 “Please—”

 “Are you going to say the massacre was out of your control? That you neither condoned it nor were aware of it?”

 “I had no idea how my troops were behaving,” Louis insisted.

 “And what good would deflecting the blame do? It still happened under your name.”

 Louis moved his hand slowly, looking as if he were about to reach out. He decided against the idea and dropped it to his side.

 “I must at least try,” he said.

 After years of control, of slipping through Louis’s fingers and getting raked across the skin by his blunt nails, after the endless weeks he had tortured himself with want for his infuriating, maddening brother, Philippe knew better than to give him more chances. But he did anyway.

 “I won’t leave you alone with her,” he warned.

 Louis nodded once, and Philippe quietly opened the door. Inside, Liselotte was sitting on the bed with a handkerchief in her lap. Her hands were pressed to her abdomen and Philippe felt a brief pang of worry for their child.

 She looked up when they entered. Her eyes were red-rimmed with still-wet tear tracks running down her cheeks. When they fell upon Louis, she clenched the handkerchief tightly in her fist.

 “You have fulfilled your duty admirably towards my brother and our family,” Louis began, and Philippe already regretted letting him in if that was to be his opening. Liselotte’s expression spoke volumes.

 “I understand the grief you must feel after what has happened to your countrymen and your family.”

 Liselotte wasn’t looking at him anymore; she had shut her eyes from his face and his words. Philippe thought to drag him out before he could hurt her further, but then she suddenly spoke.

 “I don’t know who among my family have escaped. And now the child I carry will have to live knowing that half his blood murdered the other half.”

 Philippe could hear the almost silent resignation in her voice. She had cried for so many hours, but she was very slowly bottling up her grief already, ready to keep her pain hidden from the serpentine court. But if Philippe knew anything about his wife by now, it was that she was no Versailles courtier when it came to hiding one’s heart.

 Louis moved to sit beside her on the bed and he too closed his eyes for a long while. When he opened them again, he gently slid his hand on top of hers.

 “I have come to ask for your forgiveness,” he said quietly, “I know there is no way for me to help ease the pain, but please know that I never wanted this.”

 Liselotte looked down at their joined hands. She didn’t pull away from his hold but Philippe could see her knuckles whitening underneath Louis’s fingers from clutching her handkerchief so hard.

 “His Majesty asks for something I’m not sure I can give,” she spoke finally, “The wound is still fresh in my heart.”

 Louis pulled his hand away; there was no anger in his eyes as he did so. “I understand. But I thought it best to speak to you in person about it rather than hide in the shadows.”

 She nodded then looked back down at her hands. There was nothing more that could be said, so Louis left with Philippe behind him. He bid Madame de Maintenon to take their place and help Liselotte freshen up, which she dutifully did, closing the doors behind her.

 “Is your conscience clear now?” he asked and Louis sighed.

 “Of course not.”

 “Did you really expect she’d forgive you?”

 He shook his head. “No… But I did what I thought was right. For her and for you.” He fixed his bright eyes on Philippe, shining in the dark corridor. “If you were to cut yourself from me, then Versailles would truly be lost. _I_ would be lost.”

 Philippe looked at him in disbelief. “I’ve never wanted anything to do with this place. This entire gilded shithouse was your own fantasy. And now you have the gall to say it would crumble without me? After all the pain you’ve caused?”

 “Then help me stop it!” Louis exclaimed, sweeping his arm at the room around them. “Help me remove the poisons from these halls! I cannot fight battles both abroad and at home all by myself.”

 His need was no longer enough. Philippe was dangling on the edge of a precipice, holding onto his brother’s shoelaces, waiting until he pried every single one of his fingers off. If he continued to give in, he would be chewed up and spat out until all that was left was a pile of bones.

 “Have you earned my historian’s trust yet?” Louis asked.

 A deliberate change of subject was rather cowardly, Philippe thought. He tilted his head gently to the side in a noncommittal manner of saying ‘yes’. Thomas was all coy smiles and pretty words and teases, with fingers generous in their trails across his arm, but always cautious enough to step away before things went any further.

 “He’s pleasant enough but also guarded,” he said, “He might be suspicious of me already.”

 “Then perhaps he needs a little more persuasion.” Louis stepped forward and fiddled with his brother’s cravat, loosening it until slipped down his neck and exposed the white hollow of his throat. He deftly unbuttoned the top of Philippe’s blouse, never once blinking. His fingers trailed across his collarbone and Philippe hissed at the cold touch.

 Louis looked into his eyes, half-hooded and bright. “He won’t resist you like this.”

 He stood stock still, fighting within himself to either push his brother away or grab a handful of his hair and tug on it so hard he would gasp in pain.

 “I wish I knew what these games you play serve to do to me,” he murmured. Louis’s palm slid over his heart, right where it beat a little faster and louder.

 “I play no games, dear brother. I know you’re still angry with me, and I don’t expect your wife’s forgiveness as of yet. But what I ask of you now has nothing to do with our personal quarrels. It is for the safety of France.” He brushed his fingers up Philippe’s neck to lose them within his long hair. “Although it pains me to admit that my desire for you hasn’t diminished. But now is not the time.”

 Philippe closed his eyes lest he be blinded by the sun again. There were only so many burns he could endure. Perhaps he really was as weak he had always thought. It took a twisted and unsalvageable heart to crave a brother who took all you held dear, yet also caved to your darkest indulgences.

 “After what you’ve done, I cannot allow you to twist me any further. Do you know how broken I am after all these years?”

 Louis leaned down to gently press a kiss to his shoulder and Philippe didn’t push him away. “You have yet to be broken. A king’s brother stands beside his sovereign with the same unbendable core planted within our legacy for centuries. I have asked Liselotte for forgiveness that may never come. Now I ask you to save Versailles and our fortunes in the war, and that is something that I do expect. My entire being is in your hands now.”

 

 -

 

As it turned out, Louis had had the right idea. Philippe had cornered Thomas the historian near his quarters with his uncovered neck and his white chest and the next thing he knew, they were both lying on his bed with their trousers around their ankles.

 Thomas was breathing heavily next to him while Philippe kept his eyes closed. Then he felt a hand push away the damp strands of hair from his forehead and he turned to the side and opened them to see Thomas watching him with a little grin.

 “Monsieur is certainly enthusiastic in his responses.”

 Philippe laughed breathlessly and arched his hips upwards so he could pull his trousers back on. “It has admittedly been a while.”

 The chevalier had been none to happy about his current courtship; Philippe had feared he would wake the entire palace with his outburst. He had tried to explain, but months of building resentment were finally crashing down on them both and it was a wonder his lover had shot nothing more valuable than the upholstery.

 And of course, Louis was still playing his mind games and touching him so gently here and there, bringing Philippe to the brink of a precipice he feared to fall over yet desperately wanted to. Thomas may be a spy, but he was a damn good cock sucker and Philippe was ready to wring as much enjoyment as he could out of this mission. If he sometimes imagined bright blue eyes instead of the dark brown ones looking up at him from between his legs, no one would ever know.

 Thomas also pulled his trousers up before turning on his side to face him. “I can’t imagine that the king’s brother would be wanting of company. I wonder what it is about me that draws you past all the mignons of the court. I am but a humble writer.”

 “Perhaps that is why I’m drawn to you.” Philippe ran his hands down Thomas’s cheek in a practiced move. Just two fingers trailing across skin, the same way he had done to countless men. “You debate philosophy and the fragility of legacy with the king. Tell me, is he a brick wall to your suggestions or does he take what you say into consideration?”

 Thomas thought for a moment. “He asks for my opinion on many things,” he finally replied, “He wonders what turns of phrase I’ll use to record his actions. The interpretation our descendants may form of our words is an important thing to consider when writing of his exploits.”

 “So he confides in you? Does he talk strategy perhaps? He must if he wants documentation of his victories.”

 Philippe swore he saw the corners of Thomas’s mouth twitch ever so slightly, though they were quickly swayed up into a coy smile. “I don’t think it would be wise to divulge anything, Monsieur. Not until my chronicles have been finalized, at least.”

 Philippe answered with his own smile, though he cursed inwardly. The man was too good to let anything suspicious slip out.

 “My brother and I have never seen eye-to-eye,” he said, changing tactics, “You’ve spent many good hours of the day following him around. Surely after such time, the shine of his kingliness wears off until all you see is a man. And one that can be infuriating at times.”

 Thomas turned to look at the ceiling, linking his fingers together across his stomach. “He is indeed a man as we all are. Sometimes he will even tell me of his personal arguments. He’ll talk of his mistresses, and of you.”

 Philippe frowned. “What does he say about me?”

 “He believes you don’t understand the greater picture he sees in his head, the vision he wants to bring to life for France. That you sometimes struggle to remain at his side.”

 He shouldn’t have felt any sharp pangs at those words, but Philippe felt them all the same. He had heard those accusations levelled at him from Louis many times.

 “I—” he began angrily, but then he caught sight of how intently Thomas was looking at him.

 The man was trying to goad him into revealing his secrets, he realized. They were both playing a dangerous game of waiting for the other to slip, and Philippe nearly had.

 “I am the cloud in front of the sun,” he said simply, “What younger bother doesn’t enjoy annoying his elder? I confess it’s childish to do so for matters of state, but rather satisfying, don’t you think? Oh, don’t worry! It’s never taken to extremes.”

 He forced a laugh and Thomas followed suit, though his smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. They were both on to each other and it was rather absurd, really. Failed attempts at catching each other’s deception right after rutting sounded like the raucous comedies that were all the rage in Parisian theatres.

 “I suppose I should get going,” Thomas said. He made to leave, but Philippe stopped him with a grip on his arm.

 “Your not-quite-sovereign isn’t done with you yet,” he said.

 He pulled Thomas on top of him and grabbed handfuls of his arse. Enemies they may be, but Philippe was randy and the bedroom was always the best place for an armistice.

 

-

 

 The next time he saw Thomas alone, the thin veil of civility was gone. He had spent the past week or so slinking an arm around his waist when they were in the same room with the king. Philippe always felt a stab of delight when Louis and the Chevalier’s eyes stormed over at the gesture. Bending men to their desire for him was the one power he wielded higher than even the king.

But tonight was different. Thomas was flushed, his hair tousled by the wind, and every honeyed word Philippe spoke only served to tighten the thin line of his mouth. The man was getting ready to escape, and for once, Philippe’s primary concern was for the safety of this place.

He pulled him by the front laces of his pants and dropped him on the bed, going through the practiced motions of love with ease. He kissed Thomas long and slow, waited until the other man’s hands snaked around his back and he was being thoroughly plied from all thoughts of escape before he searched around for the knife hidden in his pillow.

Thomas quickly caught his wrist, and his pursed lips bared back into a snarl. “That’s not very nice.”

Everything after that was a blur of shredded fabric and tussling as Philippe fought against him; years of wrestling with his brother as children inured him to being bowled over the desk and onto the floor. But he had less luck when Thomas gained the upper hand and struck a blow to his head once, twice, and a third time.

All went black then, and Philippe sank into darkness and blood. It was peaceful in the world of dreams. He felt no pain, no pressure. It was sweet respite from the opulent noise of Versailles present in every corner. He could have stayed here forever, content that he had done what was asked of him.

Then, a persistent tapping on his cheek. Philippe screwed his eyes shut tighter, unwilling to awaken. But a familiar voice kept frantically calling for him, and he finally opened them to a shadow looming above.

The Chevalier’s worried face swam into view, small teardrops falling from his eyes onto Philippe’s cheeks.

“Oh, my darling!” he sobbed.

Philippe pushed himself off the bed he had been placed in and nearly fell back as a wave of dizziness swirled around his head. The Chevalier steadied him with a firm grip and he gratefully sank into his embrace.

“Thomas,” he croaked, his voice like sandpaper against his throat.

“Dead. He’s dead,” his lover said shakily, “I found him about to kill you, and he ran from the room, but I couldn’t let him go! I shot him as he was about to escape, and I ran back to you as soon as I could. I’m so sorry, my love. I should have believed you when you spoke of a ruse, I should have—”

Philippe lifted his head and found the Chevalier’s mouth without having to really look. He kissed away the rest of his words. The taste of his blood fell onto their tongues and he pulled away, wiping away the worst of it with his palm.

“No. Here.” The Chevalier handed him a lace handkerchief.

“Thank you. For everything. For saving me.” Philippe spoke in earnest. He couldn’t remember the last time his lover had looked at him with such tenderness. Weeks of tart bitterness crumbled to dust, washed away by his tears.

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

Philippe’s heart ached. “And I’ve missed you.” He buried his aching nose into the Chevalier’s curls and they embraced.

Their warm reunion was interrupted by the arrival of three guards, followed by the king. Louis was as composed as ever, looking for all the world like this had been the most uneventful of evenings. He didn’t bat an eyelash at Philippe’s bloody appearance.

The Chevalier scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to clumsily bow.

“Sire, I had no intention of causing trouble!” he babbled, “I saw your brother in pain. My anger was too strong for me—”

“Enough.”

“I was driven by action. A reflex beyond my control. I had no time to consider the consequences—”

“Silence!” Louis barked, and the Chevalier pressed two fingers to his lips. Philippe watched from the corner of the room, silently dabbing the handkerchief to his face.

“Fabien has already told me what you’ve done,” Louis continued, “I’ve come to express my gratitude. You have shown honour and valour in ridding the palace of a dangerous spy.”

The Chevalier turned to Philippe, who shared his surprise. He looked back to the king, struggling to find the words. Never had even the tiniest amount of royal praise been given to him. The kindest Louis had ever been was complimenting his cravat, and that had been nearly a decade ago.

“As a reward, you will receive an annual stipend so you are no longer in debt, nor so reliant on my brother. On the condition,” he raised a finger before the Chevalier could say anything, “That you start to behave as a nobleman. Your predilection for alcohol and powders will cease if you wish to remain associated at my court.”

The Chevalier beamed. “Absolutely, Sire. I assure you—”

“Now get out,” Louis snapped, “I wish to speak to my brother alone.”

The Chevalier gave a flowery bow and shuffled to the door. He gave Philippe the biggest grin before disappearing. The guards stepped out of the room and shut the doors behind them.

Louis approached his brother, who had stopped his wound cleaning in his surprise. He took the handkerchief and tipped Philippe’s face to the side, where he gently dabbed at the blood.

“That was very generous of you,” he said.

Louis did not look into his eyes as he continued his nursing, even though their faces were very close. “I didn’t do it for him. I did it for you.”

Philippe hissed as he pressed too hard on a sore spot above his nose and flinched away. Louis was quick to grab his chin and turn him back to finish the job.

“I wanted to show him my gratitude for saving one who is very dear to me.”

Philippe closed his eyes, forcing himself not to sneeze against the itchy cloth. “I don’t understand you.”

He felt the handkerchief leave his skin and opened his eyes again to see Louis staring at him.

“How so? You’ve risked your life for your king. It is only fitting that I reward you.”

“You ask more and more of me and of others, and I tire of it.” He swatted Louis away and stood up, feeling that familiar anger rise inside of him as his brother remained solemn. “I have been tormenting myself over you for months, wondering what it is you think of me now. You said I was your weakness, and here I am, making a fool out of myself because I know you won’t hound me until I do as you say.”

“Philippe,” Louis began, but he evaded his attempt at touch.

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“All of you, brother. I want all of you. Every inch.” Louis cupped his face, trapping him where he stood. “But we cannot always sate our desires the way we want. You and I, we have duties we must place above all else. Which is why I wish for you to become my sword once more.” He ran a thumb across Philippe’s lower lip and smiled widely. “Tomorrow, you will go to war. I want you to destroy William of Orange for France, and for me.”

Philippe tilted his head. “You’re sending me into battle?” he asked incredulously.

“That is still what you wish, isn’t it?”

He hardly dared to believe in his brother’s generosity. The last time he had gone to war, Louis had ridden right into his victory and snatched it away with an offer of peace. Then he had replaced him on the battlefield, jealous of the glory he had amassed. He had not foreseen this change of heart, but Philippe finally understood his brother better.

“You trust me,” he said, “At least a little.”

Louis smiled. “I always have. Perhaps it was my mistake not to show it often enough. I trust you will blind our enemies with the sun’s light.”

Philippe could no longer contain himself. He forgot about earlier resentments and his wife’s grief. He moved forward, but Louis turned away so that their foreheads touched instead of their lips.

“Let me kiss you,” Philippe pleaded harshly.

Louis’s breathing was shaky. “No. It is too risky in here. The guards are still waiting for me outside the room.”

“If not now, then when? If I am to leave tomorrow, we won’t get another chance.” Philippe ran his hands across his brother’s waist, but they were caught and pulled away. He likely looked like a sad dog begging for its master’s touch, but Philippe was beyond shame. He had waited too long to indulge in his secret want.

“Go to your lover,” Louis said softly, “Spend a fond final night with him.”

Philippe cried in frustration. “Just tell me if you want this to stop!”

Louis gently tugged at his cravat, and Philippe watched his adam’s apple bob heavily as he swallowed. “I never said that. Only that right now isn’t the time. I’ve put my trust in you, brother. Now I ask that you do the same.”

He left Philippe with his unquenched thirst, later sated in the Chevalier’s arms. It wasn’t a complete disappointment. He had missed the feel of his beloved underneath him (and also above him; they had a lot to catch up on). But they could fuck every day of the week if they wished—and they had indeed broken records in years past. His rare moments with Louis were few and far in between. As Philippe clung to the Chevalier’s back, he thought no more of it and lost himself in familiar pleasure.

 

-

 

He had managed to cut the priest’s benediction shorter than the last time. Philippe rose to his feet and adjusted his sash. The court was awaiting his departure, though he wasn’t in need of such a pompous send-off. This quiet farewell in his chambers with Liselotte and the Chevalier was enough.

To his wife, he gave a soft peck on the cheek and a whisper of encouragement. Before he pulled away, she took his hand and brought it to her belly. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears. She gave a firm nod and he smiled weakly, pressing briefly against their unborn child. The grief was not yet gone from her countenance, and Philippe wished he could maintain his anger. But he was a selfish man, and she seemed happy enough with the comfort he had provided.

To his lover, he gave murmured assurances against his lips of his safe return. The Chevalier had given him a thoroughly passionate farewell the night before, but he still gripped Philippe’s sleeves intensely. His tears flowed, and he made no effort to hide his displeasure.

“What could I say to make you stay?” he asked.

Philippe’s heart grew warm. “Nothing. But you can grow your hair out and buy those new coloured silks in Paris. I want you looking lovelier than before when I return.”

The Chevalier let out a shuddering laugh before kissing him hard. Philippe touched his cheek one last time before he turned and left the room.

Half the court was assembled before the palace gates. His horse was waiting in the hands of a stable boy, surrounded by the royal unit who were outfitted in more ceremonial regiment than they would wear in battle. They were to meet with the rest of the army assembling in Paris and continue to the front in a few days.

“Your Majesty, I must highly advise against this—”

Philippe turned to see Bontemps fretting about as the king mounted atop his white horse.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Louis adjusted himself in the saddle and gently took hold of the reins. “I am accompanying you to the outskirts of Versailles. I want to give a personal farewell.”

Philippe’s heart thudded hard; he was surprised he didn’t hear it thunk against his breastplate. He followed the military procession past the gates and kept a calm face. The sound of the cheering crowd was nothing but fuzzy background noise to his ears. He was focused on his brother’s back, bobbing up and down in front of him.

They rode until the palace was out of sight. It was a clear and cloudless day, and the sun caught along their hair and armour like a thin golden blanket. Once they reached the foot of a stone bridge stretched out over a calming river, Louis turned to address the men.

“You’ve woken especially early this morning, so I shall give you a reprieve before your real journey begins. Wait on the other side of the bridge. I wish to speak to my brother alone, away from the ears of the court. We won’t be long.”

The men looked at each other uneasily, but Louis, encouraged by their silence, forged ahead. “I assure you, we will be quite safe. Now go.”

One by one, they trotted over the bridge. Louis guided his horse off the path and motioned for Philippe to follow. They wound across the trees at an even pace, until the sound of the other horses faded away. When they emerged into a new clearing, Philippe saw that they were high upon a cliff. He had been here once before; he and Louis had stood here together long ago, back when their father’s little hunting lodge was the only thing visible in the distance. Versailles’s massive presence jutted out from the forest around it, like a monstrous being that could devour its surroundings.

Louis dismounted and tied his horse’s reins to a nearby tree. He stood at the edge of the cliff to admire his far-away creation.

“You don’t think the men will find this a little strange?” Philippe asked. He was on his feet again and moved to stand next to his brother. “The two of us gallivanting off is a breach of royal protocol.”

“I wanted us to have a moment away from everything,” Louis replied, “We can be unguarded here.”

Philippe clasped his hands behind his back and watched the smoke rise from the palace’s innumerable chimneys. “That seems uncharacteristic of you. You’d guard yourself if you were alone up a tree with a squirrel as your only foe.”

He was roughly tugged away from the landscape and pulled into a rough kiss. Philippe dropped all pretense and pulled his brother close, groaning like a parched man slaking his thirst as he was finally given in to his desire. Louis was trying to consume the very air from his lungs, tugging at his hair so painfully that it made his cock ache.

He cradled his face in his warm palms and panted against him. “You have no idea how long I’ve been restraining myself.”

Philippe laughed breathlessly. “Since when do you restrain yourself in anything?”

“I have to restrain myself from you, brother. We must be careful, and these moments are few and far between.”

“True enough. Then let’s stop talking.”

They kissed again and sank to their knees, their hands scrabblings at the many layers they draped themselves in every day. Louis fumbled with the fasteners on Philippe’s breastplate and clumsily flicked them open. It was hastily tossed away so they could collide once more, this time with Philipe able to feel the warmth of his brother’s chest and the pounding of his heart against his own.

Outside of Versailles’s walls, the stifling weight of secret guilt was lessened. It was as if the cold air was the key to their freedom, where they could fall into wanton need without reproach. Philippe pushed his brother to the leaf covered ground and slid atop his body, heedless of the scratches and tugs of the interminable lace and trimmings against his skin. He had never felt more alive, like every inch of him was thrumming with energy.

Louis ran his hands from Philippe’s hair down to his back, taking great care to squeeze his arse. Philippe responded by biting down on his lips, his cock twitching hard when he tasted a droplet of blood.

They pushed and pulled against each other like two waves colliding in a roiling sea. They had little time before the soldiers would come and fetch Philippe, and Louis was well aware of it. He fumbled with the front of his brother’s breeches, hastily slipping his hand to squeeze his hardness.

Philippe groaned against his lips and grabbed his wrist, keeping it in place so he could feel Louis’s heat between his legs a little longer.

Louis bit tugged on his hair and he jolted, letting go of his brother’s hand. It slipped out of his pants and he nearly trembled from the cold that replaced it, but his pupils narrowed to tiny pinpricks as he watched Louis fumble with his own front laces. He pulled everything down, freeing his cock and his pale legs to the sun.

“You will take me right here,” he said, breath misting in the air, “I’m not the one who’ll be riding for days on horseback.”

Philippe’s mouth watered, watching his brother’s cock twitch against his thigh. “That sounds like a command.”

Louis tugged off his pants completely, carelessly kicking them aside along with one boot, then widened his legs without an inkling of shame. “And if it was?” he challenged.

Philippe leaned forward until his hair fell in long curtains on either side of their faces. He brushed his hand across the smooth plain of his brother’s left buttock. “I suppose I must do my duty.”

They kissed again with abandon. Their arms wound together until they were flush, Louis’s hardness rubbing between their bellies and against the top of Philippe’s ruffled shirt. It was like scratching a long-suffering itch; he had waited so long to sate his sinful need that the pleasure was a torturous ache in its own right.

“Hurry,” Louis whispered in his ear, hissing sharply when Philippe breached him with his fingers, “I don’t need your care, I need your haste!”

Philippe silenced him with his mouth, taking savage pleasure in how vulnerable his brother was at this moment. Trapped beneath his body, naked from the waist down, practically jerking his hips upwards for any kind of friction: this was the glorious Sun undone in a way none would ever see him, not even any of his mistresses. This was a picture they painted only for themselves, and Philippe would burn the sight within his memory, deep down where even the saints could not wrest it out of him. It was not meant for the virtuous.

He pulled his own cock free of its confines and dampened it as much as he could with his licked palm. His other hand was trapped, thumb pulled in and out between Louis’s teeth. The king raised his knees insistently.

Philippe held on to his hip with a trembling hand and slowly pushed in. The familiar feeling of tight heat clenched around him, but it had been so long since he had felt this particular heat. Louis arched his head back and grabbed handfuls of Philippe’s shirt.

His thrusts were fast, quick and uneven. Surrounded by dirt and leaves, it was as if they had reverted to the bestial states that men once were before they stood upright and draped themselves in clothes. Philippe lost his senses into his brother’s overly perfumed hair, savouring every electric jolt and streak of nerves, every full bit of sensation he he could wring from his skin.

He looked at Louis, desperately seeking that wild expression he knew so expertly to put on men’s faces. The unrestrained moans he received were delicious proof, and he groaned loud and low when his hair was pulled back.

Louis wrapped his arms around Philippe’s neck and turned his head to mouth at the skin below his ear.

“You will bring us glory,” he said, his breath hitching on a particularly hard thrust.

“Yes,” Philippe panted.

“You will remain unharmed.”

“Yes.”

“You will leave me aching until you return.”

Philippe let out a whine at his words and doubled his force. Louis held on for dear life, proudly shouting his pleasure to the trees. Philippe slid his hand between them and pumped his brother’s cock, delighting in loud cry this produced. Louis clutched his face and forced them to look at each other.

“Watch me,” he hissed, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, brother. Watch me.”

Philippe didn’t dare even blink. He stroked faster to match the speed of his hips, the storm within him nearly ready to thunder. The wave crested for Louis first, and Philippe felt warm spurts across his hand. His mouth was wide open, uttering voiceless oaths as he pinned Philippe down with his blue eyes, his cheeks turning a pretty red. His brows knitted upwards, opening himself raw for the few mere moments he could be free.

And Philippe felt himself open up; the flood spilled over inside of him and he released deep inside his brother. He stuttered through each numbing wave, all the while staring into the flushed face of his tormentor. He was going to die, Philippe thought. His brother was sucking every drop of his essence with his eyes and his body and he would die before he ever made it to the battlefield.

It was almost a mercy when the pleasure subsided. Philippe fell forward and shivered into a welcome embrace. His exhaustion came swiftly, and it felt like a comforting blanket over the both of them. Louis’s fingers glided across his scalp and threatened to pull him into a deep sleep.

“Remove yourself from me,” he ordered quietly.

“You certainly love to spoil the moment.”

“Brother,” he insisted, pushing at his shoulders.

Reluctantly, Philippe eased himself out and rolled away. They did not have the luxury of afterglow, and the soldiers across the bridge would be growing worried soon. Louis pulled a lace handkerchief from his pocket and handed it over after cleaning himself up as best he could. It took a few minutes to lace and button up to proper decorum.

They brushed the leaves off their hair and clothes and made quick effort to look presentable. These stolen moments were like phantoms in between their ordered lives; Philippe would make sure to keep this one close when he rode into the bloodbath that was sure to come.

Louis brushed his fingers aside as he fastened his breastplate back on, and finished the job himself. His smile was faint and filled with his usual arrogance.

“I believe that was worth the wait,” he said.

Philippe scoffed. “No, it wasn’t. I was ready to throw you into my chambers if you were to leave me unsated.”

“That would be manhandling your king and a serious breach in protocol. Now.” Louis pushed his hair behind his shoulders and took a step back. “Remember your promise.”

“Of course. Honour. Glory.” He stepped forward and grabbed his brother’s behind. “A long-lasting ache.”

Louis twitched at the touch. Philippe grinned at him and stepped back. “Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll bring enough heads for your gilded pikes.”

“And I’ll be sure to make _you_ ache upon your return.”

Louis pulled him in a final embrace, and turned his head to kiss him gently. It was a strange feeling after the roughness they had just enjoyed, but it left Philippe’s lips tingling.

“Farewell, brother,” he said, “I know you won’t fail me.”

Philippe found his squadron waiting for him on the other side of the bridge. He shot one last glance behind him; Louis had vanished among the trees atop his white horse. He would no doubt return to find a frazzled Bontemps biting his nails at the thought of any danger in these thin woods.

Even though he was out of Versailles, Philippe still felt his brother’s invisible strings tugging at his limbs. Perhaps he was too entangled in this secret they had tied around each other. But as he rode ahead of the men under his command, he knew deep down he would never really want to cut himself free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I hope to find time to write more consistently soon.


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